


Cross The Line & Say Goodbye

by WhiteWolfCraft



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteWolfCraft/pseuds/WhiteWolfCraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken kiss,  an Italian club and a sweater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross The Line & Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at the end of the 2011/2012 season

“I’m... I’m leaving,” Martí mumbled, hands clasped around the bottle of beer and he was looking down at his lap, not meeting Carles’ eyes. Carles stretched his legs, the booth of the cafe they were in too small for his long limbs. 

“Yeah okay, it is getting late, we should go,” he reached for his back pocket, fishing his wallet out. 

“No, I mean... I’m leaving Barcelona,” the words made Carles freeze, the wallet open in his hands, his fingers between the euro notes. He looked up, eyes wide, to see Martí shifting in his seat, one of his nervous twitches. 

“What do you mean? Did you find some place to live outside Barcelona?” Carles knew it was a stupid question, knew exactly what Martí meant but he refused to accept it, refused to believe he would leave the club. 

“I... Bologna offered and I will never get into the first team here and maybe when I have some more experience, maybe then I can come back,” Martí rambled, the words rushing out. The wallet slipped from Carles’ fingers, landing on the table with a soft thud, shaking him from his stupor. The words had felt like a punch in the stomach, leaving him without air for a few seconds. 

“But... Bologna? Italy? Why?” his voice sounded desperate, Carles noted and he took a huge gulp from his own beer, trying to steady himself. 

“I... I can’t play for any other Liga club, can’t play against Barça. And they offered... and I can’t refuse. They guaranteed a regular starting position, something I would never get here,” Martí sounded slightly bitter and Carles could understand why. After fourteen years, only one appearance for the first team as a sub. 

“Stay. Fight for a place on the first team! You can’t just leave this team, can’t leave us,” Carles almost added ‘me’ but he stopped himself just in time. Martí shook his head mournfully, finally meeting Carles’ gaze and the defender was shocked at how sad he looked. Why hadn’t he noticed that look before? This wasn’t some sudden decision, Martí must have thought about it for a long time and didn’t tell anyone, never discussed it with them, with him. 

“I don’t even get to start our own games, how can Pep or Tito next season see if I’m good enough for the first team if I sit on the bench the whole time,” he definitely sounded bitter now and no matter how hurt Carles felt, he couldn’t help but slide into the seat next to Martí and wrap an arm around his shoulder. Martí sighed and sagged against him, finally letting go of his beer. 

“But we promised we would all play for the first team, together,” Carles muttered after a few minutes, staring at where their legs were pressed together, his light shorts a stark contrast to Martí’s darker ones. He heard the midfielder sigh and Carles pulled him closer, trying to comfort Martí and himself at the same time. 

“I know... maybe one day I will return, like Cesc did, and it will feel as if I never left,” Martí chuckled but it sounded sad and hopeless. They fell silent again, Carles not knowing what to say or do to comfort his friend and Martí just stared at his empty beer bottle, his mind somewhere else. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Carles broke the silence again, almost whispering this time, his voice heavy with too many feelings. 

“No you won’t. You will make it into the first team and become friends with Leo and Andrés and forget all about me,” Martí tried to laugh it off, his voice wavering. 

“Shut up, you know I won’t,” Carles mumbled, tightening his grip on Martí, the top of his fingers digging into his shoulder with an almost bruising grip. 

“I know... I will miss you too,” Martí turned sideways, wrapping an arm around Carles and buried his face into his shoulder. Carles could feel the midfielder’s body shudder when he wrapped his other arm around Martí, making the familiar butterflies flutter in his stomach. He ignored them, now was not the time to be concerned about his crush on the midfielder. 

They sat like that for a long time, arms around each other and Martí hiding his face, the few tears he cried soaked up by Carles’ shirt. 

“When,” Carles’ voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat noisily. “When did you accept?” He figured it was sometime this week, knowing that Martí would never keep something like this a secret for him. 

Martí moved away slightly and Carles dropped his arms, giving Martí the freedom to sit up properly. The midfielder was fiddling with the seam of his shorts, nails scratching over the fabric and Carles frowned, wondering why Martí was nervous again. 

“I.. ehm... a month ago,” he eventually mumbled, head down and his voice muffled. 

“What?!” Carles exclaimed, eyes wide. A few people in the cafe turned their heads, looking in the direction of their booth. 

“Well... they asked two months ago and gave me a month to think about it and I asked my parents and my agent what I should do and they said I should think about it and I did and I figured this is the best thing for my career and... Carles?” Martí stumbled through his reasons and Carles was slowly getting angry, the unpleasant feeling bubbling in his stomach, growing with every word the midfielder spoke. 

“You knew this for a whole month before you told me?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low to not attract even more attention. They had promised each other that if someone ever accepted an offer from another club, they would tell each other. And here was Martí, keeping this for him for a whole month, breaking that promise. Carles felt hurt and betrayed. 

“Yes... Bologna are announcing it tomorrow and I wanted to tell you before you had to read it on the internet. Carles, where are you going?” Carles had gotten up from the table halfway through the sentence, grabbing his wallet and throwing a few Euros on the table. 

“I thought I was your friend,” he growled as he pulled his jacket on, roughly zipping it close, all the while glaring at Martí. 

“You are!” Martí had gotten up too, putting a hand on Carles’ arm but the defender shook it off. 

“Friends tell each other this kind of shit. We had a promise to tell each other about this shit,” he spat, glaring at Martí and the midfielder’s shoulders sagged, leaving him looking sad and defeated. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered and Carles snorted sarcastically. 

“Yeah, right,” he spun around and stormed out of the cafe. He got into his car and drove off, music blasting loud out of his speakers, leaving Martí stranded as he had driven them to training this morning and to the little cafe after training.

* * *

It had been three weeks since Martí told him and Carles had ignored him since then, feeling hurt and betrayed. Martí had tried to make it up to him the first days but Carles acted like he didn’t care and the midfielder had stopped trying. The atmosphere in their apartment was tense, Carles leaving the room the moment Martí entered and spent as much time as he could in his bedroom, his music loud and the door locked. They used to carpool to training but now they drove separately. Carles missed Martí’s weird choice in music, his car too silent without it. 

Their friends were getting worried, Ivan had tried to corner him after training today, but Carles managed to quickly slip away. He knew Muni and Robertu were angry with him for making Martí even sadder and if he was honest, he hated himself too whenever he saw the sad look in Martí’s eyes or caught the midfielder looking at him longingly. 

He knew he should make it up to Martí before they left for Ibiza, before their fight ruined the whole holiday. Carles sighed and got up from his bed. He had been hiding in his room again after training, doing nothing else than staring at his ceiling. He knew Martí was home, could hear him rummaging in his room and Carles wandered out of his room, his feet dragging over the carpet as he walked to Martí’s room. 

The door was open, the midfielder moving around with a bundle of clothes in his arms, stuffing them in a suitcase. Carles leaned against the post and knocked on the wood, smiling slightly when Martí whirled around, dropping the clothes in shock when he saw Carles standing there. 

“Ehm, hi. Can we talk for a bit?” 

“Yeah sure, come in,” Martí picked up the clothes, stuffed them haphazardly in the suitcase and removed it from the bed, sitting down and patting the now empty space beside him. Carles shuffled inside and sat down, leaving as much space between them as he could. 

“I missed you,” Carles blurted after a heavy silence, right as Martí mumbled "I’m sorry". They looked at each other and Carles was the first one to crack a smile. 

“I really am sorry though. You were right, I should have told you the moment the deal was done,” Martí spoke right when Carles opened his mouth and the defender kept silent, waiting until the midfielder was done talking. 

“You really should have but I’m sorry too. I had no right to react like that and I shouldn’t have ignored you all these weeks,” Carles sounded regretful and he hardly dared to look at Martí, not sure if the midfielder could forgive him. 

“We were both wrong, then,” A tentative hand brushed his shoulder and Carles looked up to see Martí smiling shyly. It made his stomach flutter once again and the defender forcefully pushed his stupid crush on the midfielder to the back of his mind. Now wasn’t the right time for those feelings to surface again, not when they had just made up again. He didn’t want to ruin the last few weeks he had with Martí any more than he already had with his silly ignoring act. The midfielder was still smiling that shy smile but there still was an unsure look in his eyes. 

“I missed you and your weird music,” Carles smiled, making Martí gasp. 

“My music isn’t weird!” the midfielder cried out, affronted. Carles chuckled. 

“Yes, it is,” with a battle cry, Martí launched himself at Carles, pushing him over and attacked his sides with his fingers. The tickling sensation made Carles laugh uncontrollably, leaving him breathless and gasping for air when Martí paused. 

“Say my music isn’t weird!” 

“Never!” Carles got out between gasps of air. Martí grinned and the wickedness of it gave Carles a sense of foreboding, the hair on his necks standing up just before the midfielder attacked his sensitive sides again. 

“Okay okay, it isn’t weird. I’m sorry! It is the best music I’ve ever heard,” Carles panted, trying to wiggle away from the tickling fingers. 

“You mean it?” Martí paused and Carles seized his chance to flip them around, his own fingers now tickling the midfielder. 

"No!” The defender laughed, tickling Martí harder, shrieks filling the room.

* * *

Their friends had been relieved that they had made up, Ivan confiding in Carles that they had been about to stage an intervention, locking them up in a room together and not letting them out before they had talked it out. Carles had laughed and told him there was no need for that anymore, they had battled it out with a tickle-war, Martí winning in the end, pinning Carles on the bed and hit him several times over the head with a pillow. 

“You two are so strange,” Ivan shook his head and turned back to the conversation Robertu and Muni were having. 

 

It was their last night on Ibiza and Bartra had proposed to go clubbing. It had been fun, dancing and drinking together, a last hooray together before their ways were separated for the rest of the break between seasons. 

But now it was late and they were drunk, Martí considerably more than Carles. The midfielder leaned heavily on Carles on their way back to the hotel and the defender grunted a little under his weight. 

“M not that heavy,” Martí slurred and tried to prove it by leaning ever more, almost forcing Carles to carry him. 

“Yes you are, fatty,” Carles growled, pushing Martí off slightly, just hard enough so the defender bore less of the midfielder's weight. 

It was a struggle to get into the hotel and get them both in the elevator, Bartra, Ivan and Sergi Gómez no help at all as they laughed their asses off when Carles dragged the intoxicated midfielder into the small space. 

“You could help, you know,” he growled at his friends when he finally got Martí propped up against the wall, still an arm around him to make sure he didn’t fall to the ground. 

“Nah, way too much fun watching you moving him around,” Bartra got out between giggling-fits, bursting out laughing again when Carles flipped him off, the sound setting off Ivan and Gómez too. 

“Fine, you assholes take the stairs then,” he muttered, stabbing the button to close the doors, grinning when it shut right in their stunned faces. 

“That’ll teach them,” he smiled, pressing for their floor, his elbow bumping into Martí. 

The ride was quick and the midfielder a lot more co-operative when Carles led him out of the elevator and towards their room. It was a fumble with the key card but he finally got them into their rooms, dumping Martí on his bed and dropping down next to him, exhausted and the room spinning. 

“Carles?” Martí muttered, rolling over to rest his head on the defender’s shoulder, an arm around his chest. 

“Yeah?” Carles muttered back, reaching up to run a hand through Martí’s short hair. 

“I really missed you, you know. When you were ignoring me,” the midfielder’s voice was slurring slightly and Carles turned on his side, wrapping an arm around Martí and pulling him close. 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” Martí tried to shrug as best as he could and shifted closer to Carles, tangling their legs together. His face was too close to the defender and if Carles wasn’t so drunk, he would try to put more space between them before he did something stupid. But the alcohol clouded his judgement and he just pressed his forehead against Martí’s, smiling at him, the butterflies in his stomach a pleasant sensation. 

“But we are alright now, aren’t we?” the midfielder was biting his lip, looking unsure, a blush on his cheeks for the alcohol and his eyes slightly unfocused. He looked so tempting and Carles shifted his head, brushing his lips over Martí’s, pressing them together when the midfielder didn’t flinch. Kissing him felt perfect, like their lips were made to fit together and it got better when Martí responded, moving his lips sloppily against Carles’. The butterflies exploded, tingles shooting through his body and Carles never wanted this to end, wouldn’t mind living the rest of his life with his lips pressed against Martí’s soft and slightly dry lips. 

“We are alright,” Carles mumbled after breaking the kiss, the need for air becoming too much, and Martí smiled broadly. 

“That’s... that’s good,” the midfielder muttered, his eyelids drooping as his exhaustion caught up with him. 

“Yeah,” breathed Carles, leaning forward to kiss him again. 

 

They woke up the next day still tangled together and Martí asked him why, saying that he couldn’t remember anything from the night before. Carles felt kicked, his hopes, that he had foolishly raised when Martí kissed him back, crashing down around him. He could barely bring himself to smile and tell the midfielder that he was a cuddly drunk before fleeing into the bathroom, trying to wash his tears away under the shower.

* * *

Martí would leave for Italy permanently tomorrow, his room almost devoid of all his personal belonging, the shelves of his bookcases empty and dusted off, the walls empty, all his posters and pictures removed already. Everything had been boxed and sent to Italy, already at the apartment his new club had organised for him. 

After the night in Ibiza, Carles realised he would never get to be with Martí and tried to get over his crush, avoiding him again. But after a few days Martí had asked him why and Carles couldn’t come up with any decent excuses. The midfielder had looked so sad and hurt that it broke Carles’ heart and he vowed to be the best friend Martí ever had during the last weeks he had left in Barcelona, taking him out for small trips all over town, concerts or just lazing on the beach the whole day. 

Their friends had thrown a goodbye party and it had been a teary affair in the end, no-one really in a party mood. Martí promised to come back whenever he could but had asked every one not to say goodbye at the airport. He jokingly said that he didn’t want to cry in public but Carles figured that he meant it. 

Time had gone so quickly after the party and before Carles knew it, it was the eve of Martí’s departure and he didn’t feel ready at all. If the midfielder hadn’t asked him to help him pack, Carles would have spent the whole evening in his room, trying to will the pain away. But Martí had looked at him with his eyes big and pleading and Carles had caved in, unable to refuse the midfielder anything when he looked at him like that. 

So here he was, helping him pack up the last clothes and small trinkets, leaving the room bare besides the furniture. 

“So, this is it, yeah? You are really leaving,” Carles said as he folded a shirt and put it away. He saw Martí nod from the corner of his eyes and could hear the deep sigh. 

“I’m going to miss it here so much. Barça has been my whole life and to just leave it behind like this...” Martí sighed again and sat down on the bed, his shoulders sagging. Carles abandoned the shirt he was holding and sat down next to him, the midfielder immediately slumping against him. 

They sat like that for awhile, leaning against each other while the clock ticked loudly, the time for Martí to leave coming closer with every second that ticked away. Carles blushed when his stomach growled loudly, reminding him that they hadn’t eaten yet. Martí sat up and started laughing. 

“I’ll order us some food. You want sushi or Chinese?” He got up from the bed and stretched, his shirt riding up and Carles stared mesmerized at the strip of skin that was revealed. 

“Carles?” 

“Hu what? Oh, sushi is fine,” he smiled at Martí and the midfielder left his room. Carles groaned the moment he was gone and buried his head in the pillows on the bed. He had been so successful at ignoring his crush over the last weeks and being a good friend for Martí. He sighed and turned his head, breathing in deeply through his nose. It smelled like the scented wash powder they used for their laundry and something just uniquely Martí. He would probably never smell this combination again and he got up from the bed, rummaging through the pile of clothes they still needed to fold, picking a plain black sweater, hopefully one Martí wouldn’t miss. He crossed the hallway to his room, making sure the midfielder didn’t see him clutching the stolen sweater to his chest, and opened the doors to his closet, hiding the black thing in the back, underneath his clothes. 

He closed the doors and leaned against them, wondering just what he was doing. It felt borderline stalking, stealing a sweater but Carles needed something with Martí’s scent, something he could hold close to his chest, his heart, whenever he missed the midfielder. The smell would wear off slowly and Carles hoped his crush would fade away in the same way. 

He sighed and checked if Martí was still busy ordering food, grabbing a wrapped package out his desk and crossing the hall again, slipping back into the midfielder’s room. He grabbed a shirt and folded it quickly, stuffing the package inside so it was protected and put it away under the clothes already in the suitcase, hoping it would be protected this way. It was a framed photo of the two of them, on the beach, sitting close together with their arms around each other’s shoulders, both bathing in the light of the setting sun. Muni had taken it when they were in Ibiza and Carles was sure Martí hadn’t seen it yet. 

He had his own copy hidden in the same drawer, planning to put it on his nightstand when Martí was gone. 

“Hey, it should be here in half an hour,” Martí came back, startling Carles slightly, and they continued packing.

 

After packing everything, they spent the rest of the evening on the couch, watching films with the occasional FIFA game in between. They fell asleep, Martí with his head on Carles’ shoulder, the defender with his nose buried in the midfielder’s soft black hair. 

 

The next morning, Carles woke up with a crick in his neck, the muscles in his neck and back screaming when he turned his head. 

“Ow,” he muttered, bringing a hand up, the motion causing Martí’s head to slip off his shoulder. The midfielder jerked awake and winced too. Carles was massaging his neck, trying to work the crick out but couldn’t reach properly. 

“Remind me to never fall asleep like that again,” he mumbled, stretching his arms above his head and shaking the tiredness from his limbs, getting up from the couch. Martí was rubbing his neck also, laughing a little at Carles’ comment. 

“Sure, I don’t think I can get this crick out any time soon,” Martí gave up on rubbing out the crick and slumped down on the couch, the happy smile slipping away from his face. The defender wondered why for a second before the realisation that Martí was leaving in a few hours hit Carles hard and he slumped down next to the midfielder, the pain in his neck forgotten. 

“I’m going to miss this, hanging out together and watching stupid films or gaming until we fall asleep,” Martí smiled sadly and Carles patted his shoulder. 

“This place will be so empty without you. Maybe I can convince one of the Juvenil A boys to move in with me,” Carles tried to joke but there was no feeling behind it. 

 

“Drive me to the airport? I don’t want to take a cab,” the midfielder asked after they had breakfast and set the suitcase by the door, only an hour left before Martí had to go. 

“I thought you didn’t want anyone there when you left?” Carles asked, putting the dirty dishes in the sink and leaned against the table Martí was sitting at. 

“Yeah but... I really don’t want to do this on my own. Please?” he looked pleadingly at Carles and the defender nodded, causing Martí to smile.

 

The drive was quiet, the radio off and there wasn’t a lot left to talk about. Carles parked at the airport and looked over at Martí, the midfielder fiddling with his hands and making no movement of getting out of the car. The defender waited a few minutes more before reaching over, patting Martí’s knee. 

“Hey... we have to get out before you miss your flight,” the midfielder let out a deep sigh before nodding, his hand brushing over Carles’ when he moved to open the door. 

“I know,” they got out of the car, taking the suitcase out and Carles locked the car behind them. They knew their way around the airport, having travelled through it often and checking the luggage in went quickly. 

They wandered around the airport, ducking into shops and signing a few autographs for people who recognized them until the voice over the intercom called for the passengers to Bologna to start boarding. 

“I guess I should go,” Martí shuffled around, fidgeting, fingers playing with a loose thread of his shirt. 

“I... yeah... you got your ticket and passport ready? And someone will pick you up in Bologna?” Carles felt like a worried mother and he wanted to slap himself. Martí showed his ticket and smiled slightly. 

“I will be okay, don’t worry so much,” Carles wanted to reply that he wasn’t sure if he would be okay without Martí but kept silent, knowing the comment was very inappropriate. 

“I... fuck this,” Martí cursed and stepped forwards, wrapping his arms around Carles and hugged him tight. Carles hugged him back, his throat closing-up and breathing just got a tad more difficult. 

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Martí whispered in his neck and Carles could barely hold back a sob. He pulled the midfielder closer to his chest and hid his face in the soft black hair. 

They stood like that until the intercom repeated the boarding call for the flight to Bologna. Martí pulled back, his lips brushing over Carles’, so quick that Carles wasn’t sure if it even happened at all. 

“Text me when you get there, okay?” he asked, clearing his throat when he noticed how wrecked his voice sounded. Martí swiped a hand across his face, inconspicuously wiping his tears away. 

“I will,” Martí hugged him again, real quick, before getting into line for the security check and the gates behind it. Carles kept watching him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, until he disappeared. 

He moved to the observation deck and stayed there, watching how Martí’s plane sped up before taking off, kept watching until the plane had disappeared in the sky, carrying his friend to another country and out of his life. 

He swallowed, throat constricting, and quickly walked back to his car, slipping into the driver’s seat and let his head rest on the steering wheel, the first tears falling.

* * *

It was a few weeks into the new season and Carles hurried home after his training, drumming impatiently on his steering wheel when he had to stop for a red light. His hair was still wet from the quick shower he took after training and it was dripping in his neck, an annoying sensation. 

The light turned green and he hit the gas, toeing the speed limit in his haste to get home. He parked his car and entered his apartment building, taking one look at the elevator, seeing that the thing was at the tenth floor, and took the stairs two steps at the time. He got inside his apartment and threw his training duffel on the floor, jumping on the couch and scrambled for the remote. He turned the TV on, flipping through his sport channels before he found the one that aired the Serie A matches. 

He let out a sigh of relieve when he found the commentators still talking, discussing the start-up lines and how good Bologna’s defence was compared to AC Milan’s attack force. He smiled when they mentioned Martí, the new number 21, and praised the couple of time he came on as a sub, the reason why he had earned his place in the starting line-up today. 

The midfielder had sent him a text earlier with the news that he was starting and Carles immediately blew off watching the match with Robertu and Ivan as they normally did when Bologna played, hoping that Martí got to play, to watch the game at home, not sure if he could keep his emotions in check. 

The image flickered from the commentators to the tunnel, the players shifting around, a few players talking to each other. The camera zoomed in on Martí who was being hugged by Bojan, the AC Milan striker looking happy to see the midfielder. 

Carles smiled as he saw Martí better when Bojan pulled away. He had grown a faint beard and his fingers twitched. Some would think he was nervous but Carles knew those signs, had seen it every time they stood in the tunnel or when Martí was waiting to be subbed on. He wanted the game to start so he could play football. The midfielder looked up and caught the camera lens, smiled and winked as if he knew Carles was watching and grabbed the hand of the kid standing next to him, the players walking onto the field. The wink sent the butterflies in Carles’ stomach into a flurry of action, his strong feelings for the midfielder coming back tenfold from the corner of his mind where he had suppressed them. 

It was too much for Carles and he got up, running to his room and dug Martí’s sweater out of his closer, hugging it close and breathing in the scent, closing his eyes when that unique scent hit his nostrils. It calmed him down in the same way being in Martí’s presence used to do and it was something he did too often, when the apartment felt so lonely and empty, the silence pressing down on him. He would curl up on bed, holding the sweater close and staring at the picture on his night stand, the same one he had given Martí, and listen to Martí’s favourite band, the taste of music growing on him. 

A sound from the living room made him frown and his eyes shot open when he remembered the match. Carles ran back to the living room, slipping and skidding over the floor when he took the corner too quickly. 

The referee was just flipping the coin into the air when Carles was back on the couch, still clutching the sweater to his chest and he was relieved. He checked to make sure he was recording the game and kicked his shoes off, pulling his legs up and curling up on the soft cushions of the couch. 

The sharp whistle sounded and the match got underway, something fluttering painfully in his chest whenever Martí got the ball, passing it around like he used to do in the Barcelona midfield. Carles’ heart ached when the camera zoomed in on him again, drops of sweat ran down his face and Martí wiped them away with the edge of his shirt, his gaze focused and sharp. 

Carles’ heart clenched painfully as the emptiness hit him once again, the realisation of exactly how much he missed his friend and old roommate. He brought up one hand, tracing a finger of his lips, trying to remember the way they kissed on Ibiza, the messy and sloppy kisses that tasted of alcohol or the quickest brush of lips against his that day in the airport, Carles still wondering if it really had happened or something his mind had made up. 

The aching of his heart was getting too much, his throat constricting, closing up, making it hard to breathe and Carles buried his nose in the sweater, his hand griping the soft fabric so hard his knuckles turned white, and he just tried to breathe, slow and in an even rhythm, Martí’s scent overwhelming all his senses as tears slowly started to fall, immediately soaked up by the sweater. 

 

In Italy, the game continued, Martí passing the ball around, stealing it back from the Roma players before playing it to a teammate, unaware that his best friend, the guy he held dear in his heart and had a massive crush on, was breaking down in their old apartment, clutching Martí’s missing black sweater to his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Martí Riverola, Barça B’s number 20, played for Barcelona since he was six. After fourteen, almost fifteen years, he signed a contract with Italian club Bologna, meaning that he is leaving next season to play in the Serie A. I did not realise how much I would miss him until I wrote a drabble with Martí and Carles. Originally this was planned to be a short ficlet, a more detailed version of the drabble:
> 
> "The moment Martí told him he was going take the offer from Bologna, Carles felt like he got punched in the stomach. He understood why Martí took the offer, but he still felt betrayed and ignored him, even though Martí tried to make it up to him.
> 
> Carles regretted ignoring him now, with Martí gone to Italy, taking his stuff and Carles’ heart with him, leaving a hole in his chest and half their apartment empty. 
> 
> The only thing Carles had was a sweater he had stolen, hugging it close to his chest, taking in his scent when the emptiness got too much."
> 
> 2) Carles Planas, Barça B’s number 21, played for Barcelona since he was ten, meaning he met Martí in one of the youth squads. I’m not sure how close they are in real life, but in this story, they are best friends. Carles recently signed a contract renewal with, hopefully, a clause added that he will be promoted to the first team soon.
> 
> 3) Carles and Martí form, together with Sergi Roberto (Robertu), Marc Muniesa (Muni), Marc Bartra, Sergi Gómez and Ivan Balliu, a very tight group of friends which sadly, now that the season has ended, will be torn apart, with the two Marcs promoted to the first team and Martí going to Italy.
> 
> I’m happy for Martí that he gets to play for a good club and gets the chance to start his career off, but at the same time, I will miss him. He is a good player and he deserves this but I hope that someday, he will return home to Camp Nou.


End file.
